The Same Poison
by stripeyjumpers
Summary: John gets assigned a case by Lestrade, a case he has to work on alone, and without Sherlock knowing. *warnings inside, reviews are greatly appreciated*


A/N: Just saying, there's gonna be a tablespoon of violence, a pinch of angst, a generous of amount exhaustion and a dash of feels (if desired). But in more serious terms, there is mention of drug use and blood. As always thank you for reading :3

* * *

"He won't." John felt the words fall out of his mouth with heavy certainty as he gripped the back of the chair in Lestrade's office.

"He's _Sherlock_." The silver-haired detective retorted.

"Yes, and I know him better than anyone else. I know what makes him tick, Lestrade. I know exactly what to do to make sure this goes unknown."

The detective inspector stared with woeful eyes at the shorter doctor as he leaned back precariously in his seat.

"And you're sure you can handle it?"

"Yes, because he can't." John stood up a little straighter, and nodded curtly in reassurance.

* * *

It was nearing seven o'clock when Sherlock finally noticed that John was home. He glanced over at the doctor from his crouched position at the desk and squinted as if to reassure himself that he wasn't seeing things.

"How long have you been sitting there?" the detective spat with unnatural speed.

John looked up tiredly from his book. "About an hour, Sherlock. But I've been home for about four. How do you not notice when I come in? I said hello to you three times."

"You did? Ah, John, it's this case. I've been researching all day and I swear I seem to be the only one with any reliable information on tobacco ash."

"Oh, found a new type then have we? Can we mark that up to two-hundred forty-four?"

"Hush now John, I need to continue reading."

"You're the one who started talking to _me_."

"Irrelevant, now stop talking." Sherlock glared intensely at his computer screen.

John sighed as he pushed himself off of his faithful armchair and plopped the book down on the end table. He shuffled over to the door where he retrieved his trusty black jacket and slipped it on over his plaid flannel.

"And where are you going?" Sherlock snapped his head up at John.

"I thought you said to stop talking."

"This is an exception. Now where are you going? You've just got home."

"No, I didn't _just_ get home Sherlock remember? And I'm heading to that new place down by Angelo's, gonna meet Sarah for a bite, be back around ten maybe? Don't blow the place up." John added as he helped himself out the door.

* * *

"John! " Sherlock seemed to be shouting to no one as he stood in front of the army doctor who had taken refuge on the sofa after returning home the night before. John's eyes were shut tight as he lay sprawled across the cushions in an unnatural position, and with his jacket still on.

"_John!_" the detective tried again. This shout did elicit a small facial twitch, but nothing else. With his patience reduced to a sliver, Sherlock did not hesitate to grab hold of John's shoulder and shake it vigorously.

"John wake up! You're occupying my thinking space! John!"

Finally with a sharp intake of breath and a lunge forward, John' s eyes shot open.

"Sherlock what the hell! Could you not deduce that I was sleeping?" He lugged himself off of the sofa and dragged his feet towards the kettle.

"It is not my fault that you chose to ignore the fact that you have a bed." Sherlock grumbled as he got himself comfortable.

"I didn't ignore my bed I just didn't feel up to climbing the steps last night alright?"

"How was the café?" Sherlock practically mumbled with his fingers steepled under his chin.

"It wasn't bad. Staff was a little slow but Sarah and I just talked half the time so I didn't mind."

"Mm, that's nice."

"Are you using menial conversation to help you think?"

"And how is Sarah doing?"

"Yeah, you're doing it again. Find some other mundane task to focus on Sherlock, and if you want to have an actual conversation with me I'll be in my room."

Sherlock just closed his eyes as he listened to John padding softly up the steps.

* * *

It wasn't until Lestrade mentioned something about John on the phone did Sherlock realize that it was now nightfall and John had yet to emerge from his room.

"Yes Lestrade, I've finally identified the type of ash, it's—oh, yes, I suppose I could explain tomorrow. But I assure you this will lead us straight to our killer.—How's John? Oh, he's—" Sherlock looked up from the sofa to John's armchair but didn't see the army doctor there, or anywhere. "He's fine," Sherlock settled on. "Of course. Tomorrow, nine sharp." He swiftly hung up the phone before pounding up the steps to John's room.

Sherlock was about to bound in and demand why John hadn't yet scalded him for not eating the whole day, when he was suddenly conflicted. He held his fist up to John's door, ready to knock, then lowered it slightly, and tapped lightly on the wood instead.

"John?" he whispered through the door frame. There was no response, and so he took the initiative and turned the doorknob slowly.

Upon entering, he found John sound asleep, tucked deep under the covers with a hand behind his pillow. Sherlock looked with a confused expression at the sleeping doctor and decided it best to leave.

* * *

"Nnnf…" John grumbled as Sherlock elbowed him in the chest to remind him to focus.

They were standing in a rundown flat with the body of a middle-aged man sprawled across the floor in front of them.

"Schoolteacher, definitely, going by the state of his wrists," Sherlock began to ramble, "loved his wife, until the divorce that is, I'd say anywhere from 48 to 54 years of age, no children."

"And you think he's the killer?" Lestrade gaped at Sherlock with a look of absolute astonishment and confusion.

"I don't think he's the killer, I know he is. Did you not hear my lecture about tobacco ash this morning? Would you like me to repeat it?"

"No, no," Lestrade put a hand up, "we're fine Sherlock."

"Upon examining the dirt under his fingernails you'll find precisely the same type of ash that was found at the crime scene, not to mention the plethora of other evidence against him that I'm sure you've missed but I could very well text to you. I do believe this case is closed."

Lestrade just let out a heavy sigh as he left to brief the other officers on the situation. Sherlock was about to leave as well when he found that John was standing with his eyes closed and his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, a small snoring sound escaping his mouth. Sherlock nudged the doctor and John gasped back into reality.

"Wake up, John."

"Jeez Sherlock, give me a break I was out late last night."

"You didn't go anywhere last night. You were asleep in your room when I—you didn't go anywhere John."

"What? Yes I did, I left around nine. I told you I was going out remember? Do you just completely tune me out?"

"Depends on my mood."

"Well you must've been in a mood 'cause I said I'd be meeting Sarah again. Oh and Angelo says hello by the way." John rubbed the flakes out of his eyes and just stared at the doorway.

"That's very nice, but John if your dating life is going to interfere with cases like this then—"

"Relax Sherlock I'm not an idiot. Plus Sarah's gonna be off on holiday for at least a week so you'll have me all to yourself, yeah?"

"Fine. Let's go, I think I can smell Anderson's stupidity from up here."

* * *

The quiet grey light slipped softly through the blinds of Lestrade's office as he folded his arms neatly in front of him with a Styrofoam cup of coffee still steaming at his side. John sat opposite him with his hands balled into tight fists on the desk.

"I can't say I've got much." He spoke through a dry throat.

Lestrade sighed. "Well I can't say I blame you. And you're positive you don't want another officer with you? We could be right behind you; it wouldn't be a big deal."

"No, I mean I know that'd be logical but with this type of…we're not dealing with crazy teenagers Lestrade, this is delicate and you know it. I have to do this on my own or there's no way I'll get any information without getting caught."

"I know, I know…damn it…this brings me back to when Sherlock worked alone."

"You worried about him."

"Of course I bloody did, the man was insane, he still is. At least with you I know you're more…grounded, I suppose."

"I'll take that as a compliment." John shot a small smile across the desk.

"Well listen, I know you're aware of how swamped we are, but you make sure to remember do not hesitate to contact me with anything, I mean anything, alright?"

"Definitely,"

* * *

"And how was work?" Sherlock asked flatly without looking up from his microscope.

John dumped the one bag of groceries down on the countertop before starting to fix himself a cup of tea.

"It was the usual, sniveling children and stubborn adults, same story."

"Hm, how tedious."

"What're you working on?"

"Oh don't give me that John."

"Give you _what_?" the doctor snapped back in a surprisingly defensive tone.

"This, 'what are you working on' line that you always mumble when you've got nothing to talk about. You know damn well that even if I explained it you wouldn't understand so I'm not going to waste my breath."

"And what makes you think I wouldn't understand?"

"Deductive reasoning."

"You're calling me an idiot aren't you?"

"Do I call you anything else?"

"What the hell's got your dress shirt in a knot?"

"I'm frustrated 'cause this experiment isn't going how I planned and I don't have a case and your girlfriend is on holiday which is making _you_ irritable which is in turn making me irritable. Happy?"

"I am not irritable!" John slammed his mug down on the counter harder than he'd anticipated.

"You look tired; perhaps you should have a kip."

"I am not tired and I am not irritable and Sarah's only been gone like two days and if you're—"

"John, your rambling is interrupting my concentration."

"Fine, I'm going out then."

"You just got home."

"Did I, Sherlock? Because it's not like you'd notice either way."

Sherlock didn't say another word as John grabbed his keys and stormed out.

* * *

When the door to 221B finally clicked open, it was nearing one in the morning. Sherlock sat in his lounge pants and cotton t-shirt with a sheet wrapped around him like a cocoon as he leaned over his laptop.

"Oh, hello." John murmured as he stepped inside, sliding his jacket off his small frame.

"I assume you went to the pub."

"Hm, good one."

"I can smell the alcohol from over here, John."

"Well congratulations you can take Anderson's position as sniffer dog now." John flopped backward, landing on the sofa with a soft thud as he rested his eyes.

"I've got a new case." Sherlock said in between rapid-fire typing.

"Already? What's this one on then?"

"A man, mid-thirties, triple homicide, on the run from the police."

"And we're supposed to track him down? Isn't that what we did last time? Jesus it's like a never ending game of hide and seek."

"Yes, but this is grown-up hide and seek, and the winner doesn't die and the loser goes to jail, got it?"

"Right, of course…" John didn't even bother to continue the conversation as his heavy lids dragged him into sleep.

* * *

"Sherlock I really don't see the point of this." John grumbled as he and Sherlock navigated their way through the crowded sidewalks.

"What a surprise."

"The hell's that supposed to mean?"

"Don't be dull John; getting to look at the hotel room he stayed at is like looking at a GPS route that leads us straight to him."

"But the records show he checked out two days ago, the room's bound to be clean by now how is this gonna help?"

"Your definition of clean varies in a high degree to mine, now, let's get this over with." Sherlock opened the glass door to the hotel and motioned for the doctor to go in ahead of him.

The room was small with moderate accommodations. Just one bed with a dusty floral-patterned comforter sat against the wall, and a small, outdated television rested atop a tiny dresser. As soon as they stepped further into the room, John sat himself down on the edge of the bed.

"You're not going to be much help sitting, John." The detective reasoned as he was already examining surfaces with his pocket magnifying glass.

"Yeah well according to you I'm not gonna be much help standing either."

"No need to get cross with me now."

"I'm not getting cross I sit down for two seconds and you assume I'm just gonna lounge here the whole time!"

"And now you're raising your voice. Honestly, this is unnecessary, just come over here."

John let out a breath of irritation as he shoved up from the bed and joined Sherlock who was crouched in the corner eyeing the carpet.

"We're examining the rug now?" the doctor rolled his eyes as he sat cross-legged on the floor next to his friend.

"Yes, do keep up."

"Alright then, what d'you need my help with?"

"Look at this," Sherlock pointed a gloved finger at a small auburn colored stain that stuck out amongst the cream-colored fibers.

"Erm…that's a stain. So the cleaning crew isn't that great here, so?"

"Obviously it's a stain John, but what's the substance?"

"Hm…" he eyed it closely, "dunno, dried honey or something?"

"No, if it were honey I would've been able to smell it, but I can't ascertain anything by the smell."

"This is ridiculous." John mumbled as he sniffed just an inch or so above the stain. "Oh!" he realized after a minute of thinking.

"That's beer, Sherlock. You don't drink much do you?"

"Obviously. Good then, this is a start, we can either get loads of information from this or nothing."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean the stain appears to be fresh, can't be more than a few days old. The cleaning crew tried to hide it with the trash bin, which means…" he trailed off as he shot up from the floor and headed towards the bed, where he began ripping off the blanket and sheets.

"Sherlock! This is a hotel room not a bachelor party! You can't just mess things up all you want!" John sounded like a middle-aged mother as he nagged the tall detective, who wasn't listening anyway.

Sherlock stopped his destruction when he lifted up one of the sheets to reveal another caramel brown stain lingering on the white linens.

"Wow they really need to re-evaluate their staff." John murmured as he stared at the ugly blotch of color.

"Someone got drunk in here and the cleaning crew were obviously uncomfortable with coming in and changing the linens. This could've happened yesterday, or three days before that, but it also could've very well happened when our serial killer was the occupant."

"Okay, so we've established that someone _probably_ got drunk here, _maybe_ creeped the maids out, and it was _possibly_, perhaps, the guy we're after."

"Good keeping up, John."

"That's barely any progress at all!" John unclenched his fists and rubbed the exhaustion out of his eyes.

"This is just the beginning; you realize I don't _always_ catch criminals in three hours?"

"Yes but," he let out a long sigh, sinking back down into the rumpled sheets, "this is gonna take a while…"

"And? I'm sorry do you have other plans? Am I interfering with some important meeting?"

"No, no, sorry, I've just had a few too many late nights. And I guess you were right about me being irritable that Sarah's not here, you know I had to do the filing the other day at work?"

"Is that all you like about her? That she does the filing?"

"No, ugh, forget it."

"Right, well, come now, we need to head down to the bar and question the staff."

* * *

"It's been almost a week John." Lestrade warned from the other end of the phone.

John stood outside the small pub that Sherlock was currently investigating. The doctor's eyes were weary and his patience was growing thin as he leaned up against the cool redbrick of the alleyway.

"I know, but it's not like I haven't found anything. It's getting harder, dancing around Sherlock like this," John looked around and spoke in a harsh whisper, "I'm getting close though I'll tell you that."

"I know, I'm praying we have this resolved sooner rather than later though, so if you could do anything to just get this done quicker, I, jesus I'm sorry John there's just so much pressure—"

"No, it's alright. I promised you I'd do this so I'll pick up the pace, don't worry." John could practically hear Lestrade smile in relief on the other end.

"Right, I owe you big time for this."

* * *

The next time John opened his eyes he was lying flat on his back across the sofa. He closed his eyes again and could vaguely hear the sound of beakers and test tubes crackling against each other from the kitchen.

"John, why do you keep doing this?" Sherlock's voice seemed miles away, blocked out in some grey haze he couldn't discern.

"I know you're awake." The detective's voice was closer now, and John blinked his eyes open.

He saw a blurry vision of his flatmate towering over him, wearing his tartan dressing gown with a small notepad between his fingers.

"Keep doing what?" he asked, trying not to slur his words.

"_This,_" Sherlock motioned John's form up and down.

John just blinked hard and sat himself up a bit, wincing at the sudden spike of pain that surged through his lower back.

"Not following, Sherlock…"

"This, John, you, seeking refuge on the sofa instead of your bed, falling asleep with your jacket still on and zipped all the way. And now you're groggy, and probably irritable and I don't understand why you insist on coming down here during the night."

"Oh…that…"

Sherlock huffed and swung around until he landed in his tried and true armchair.

"Listen Sherlock, I couldn't sleep okay? I came down here in the middle of the night to watch telly, grabbed my jacket 'cause I was chilly and I guess I fell asleep without meaning to, alright?"

"Why couldn't you sleep?"

"You're not my therapist I'm not talking to you about this." John closed his eyes again and welcomed back that blissful veil of darkness.

"If you don't want to talk about your nightmares I suppose I will."

Now John perked back up, and finally sat up fully, leaning against the pillow by the armrest.

"And what exactly do you know about my nightmares?"

"I know you've been having them quite frequently as of late, going by how often you wake up on the couch."

"Hm, right…we have anything planned for the day?"

"Yes, very much actually. It is incredibly rare for me to be taking this long to track down a killer, which only makes it that much more intriguing. We've got a lot more clues to follow, John."

"Oh, yeah that triple homicide thing…we're still on that? Hm…alright then."

* * *

The day had been long and arduous, and John all but dragged his feet up the steps to flat like there were bricks in his shoes. Sherlock had practically flown up the stairs, and was already doing research on his laptop by the time John entered the sitting room.

"This case is bloody ridiculous." John grunted with a scratchy voice. He sighed and sank down as deep as he could into his chair.

"It's not ridiculous, it's brilliant! This man was possibly made for me John, leaving behind subtle clues, evading my sights, and just when I think I've got his location down to the T he disappears again."

"That sounds awful, Sherlock. And it means more work."

"Exactly! More work. I haven't been bored in almost a week!"

"Mm, that's great." John shut his heavy lids and it wasn't long before dark clouds of sleep took him in.

* * *

"Tea?"

The simple question from Sherlock's mouth was enough to startle John out of his slumber, and he gripped the armrests of his chair tight in anticipation.

"Oh, Sherlock. Morning."

"You're wearing your jacket." Sherlock observed, "You weren't wearing it when you fell asleep here last night."

John looked down at himself to test the validity of Sherlock's claim.

"Oh. Got cold."

"There's a blanket right behind you." Sherlock pointed with a suspicious index finger.

"Hm?" John whipped his head around and scrunched up his nose in disapproval. "Yeah well, that blanket's like Swiss cheese if you haven't noticed. Not exactly the warmest option."

"So, tea then?" Sherlock asked again as he padded back to the kitchen in his bare feet.

"Uhm, no thanks." John unzipped his jacket and started to rub his forehead in frustration.

"No tea? Since when do you not want tea?"

"Since when do you give a damn?"

Sherlock stopped what he was doing and glared down at John.

"The _one_ time I do something human and you're giving me grief. What have we switched positions now? I'll be the nice one and you just bark insults at me?"

"I was not _barking_ for Christ's sake Sherlock all I said was I didn't want any tea. I need a damn aspirin that's what I need." John wriggled his small stature up from the chair, pressing a hand to his head and grimacing as he headed towards the bathroom.

* * *

"For the last bloody time, I don't care!" the anger in John's chest bellowed up as he clenched his fists tight at his sides.

Sherlock looked down at his flatmate in absolute awe. He dropped the dust covered knick knack he was holding and stalked slowly over to John.

The two had been rummaging through the basement of a small abandoned house. The ceiling was low, the walls were made up of dark orange panels, and the floor and shelves were littered with trash and leftover ephemera.

"John," Sherlock's voice was nothing short of a low growl. He stared deep down into the dark blue ocean of John's eyes.

The doctor held his ground, standing as firmly as he could and not breaking his gaze at the detective.

Sherlock continued, "I am going to say this only once, so don't you dare make me say it again."

John gulped back a smart comment and balled his fists tighter until his knuckles were white. The taller man's thunderous baritone rippled through the short distance between them,

"I respect you, John. I don't always approve of your methods, or your choice of words, or the way you conduct yourself at times, but there is always at least a sliver of respect. Now I don't care, and believe me when I tell you I don't care how many nightmares you've had in the past week, because god damn it John…this isn't just my case. We work together have you forgotten? And now, not only are you not helping me but disrespecting me? I don't even—"

"Sherlock, don't." John's voice was so dry and husky for a moment he didn't even recognize it was his own.

"Don't _what_?"

"I'll help you, okay?" John was trembling now, trying desperately to not let the tremors be heard in his voice. "I didn't mean to snap at you. I didn't mean any of the things I said, and I do care, I do, I promise you, this case has just been…so infuriatingly tedious—"

"Alright." The detective stood up a little straighter, his face seeming to relax a bit. "It's alright John, let's just breathe, okay? We've both been on edge this week. This case is taking far longer than expected and I understand you've been busy with work, I know, let's just…just calm down and start over."

"Okay."

John stood and let Sherlock explain the significance of layers of dust. He listened, almost hypnotized, eyes glazed over, expressionless. The shadows under his eyes were like craters on his face, and he just concentrated on two things; breathing, and Sherlock.

* * *

The folder let out a slight hiss as it was slid across Lestrade's desk. John laced his fingers together in anticipation.

"And you're positive this is them?" Lestrade asked with a hesitant hand ready to open the file.

"One-hundred percent." Even with his confident attitude, John's voice was tired.

"God John, you've been at this for almost two weeks, I hate to say I can't believe you haven't given up." Lestrade smiled as he looked over the few photos and notes that resided in the manila folder. "This is good, we can work with this."

"Good…good…" was all John found himself saying, suddenly feeling drained of any energy to formulate a sentence.

"And Sherlock's still on the Birch case correct?"

"Yes, Andrew Birch, the new 'Where's Waldo'." John let out a dry laugh.

"How's he…I dunno, doing? With your situation I mean, he doesn't suppose anything's out of the ordinary?"

"Oh god no. I'm not sure if it's good or terrifying that he believes everything I say."

"Well for right now it's good. He needs to stay out of this as long as possible. Dare I say I hope he doesn't find Birch any time soon."

"Cause we all know what that would mean."

"Bored."

* * *

"John, are you listening to me?" Sherlock shot a deathly glare across the small table in the café. The two were sitting opposite each other with nothing but a plethora of papers and photographs strewn about between them.

"Hm? Mhm…" came John's muffled response as he stared down blankly at the notes.

Sherlock was rifling through the papers like crazy, his mind wired and high on excitement.

"Look here, if I've calculated this right, and I know I have, this puts our killer just a block away in this dingy living complex, most likely the place he's been hiding out in the past few days. John? John!"

"Yes!" John shot up out of his daydream, "Yes of course Sherlock, right, dingy flat, yes…and we're gonna, what, break in? While he's there?"

"Precisely, once we've narrowed down which door is his, yes."

"Oh, that sounds great: 'knock knock' 'I wonder who's there', 'oh just a couple of blokes who're gonna arrest you now, no big deal'…"

"Honestly John we could all do without the dramatics. I trust you've got your weapon."

"Course I do, you were the one who shoved it in my pocket remember?"

"Ah, yes, well, let's just go over the layout of the building one more time for good measure."

John just grunted in agreement and rubbed his eyes.

* * *

The city was flying, flashing before their eyes as they ran. Buildings and cars became wisps of colors across their vision as John and Sherlock weaved in and out of narrow alleyways. The grey overcast sat as a silent observer in the sky as the sound of heavy feet on gravel crunched through the airways.

Sherlock had been correct in his assessment of Birch's location, and was correct in his assumption that he would be there upon their entering. What he did not consider, while beginning to chase the man out of the flat and down the street, was that he and John would become the ones being chased.

All it took was one slip of John's footing for the man to grab the pistol out of the doctor's hand and turn the tables on them. Luckily Sherlock managed to snap the gun out of his fingers, which had unfortunately sent it flying, and none of them went to retrieve it as Birch whipped out a knife he'd been concealing and continued to chase the pair in a crazed panic.

Now, with no means of defense and a killer holding a knife not far behind them, all there was left to do was run. Sherlock's stride was calculated and uninterrupted. John's however, was beginning to waver very quickly.

The detective was a good five feet ahead of him, and John risked one glance back and noted that Birch was about fifteen feet behind. John snapped his head back around and followed the billowing grey fabric that whirled around the corner.

It didn't take long for John's breaths to become shorter and more difficult. He felt like the entire world was shifting in front of him and he begged his eyes to stay open. He kept putting one foot in front of the other, quickly, but not quick enough, as Sherlock seemed to get farther and farther ahead of him.

John was panting and heaving profusely when he turned another corner, and his tired and aching body decided it'd had enough. He could see the grey splotches begin to obscure his vision, and as his movements slowed, he tried to call out for his friend, but it only came as a whispered "Sher…" before his legs buckled underneath him.

The pavement felt harsh and cruel as his side crashed down on it. John could vaguely hear the footsteps of the killer approaching him but his muscles refused to cooperate.

Another two seconds had gone by, and in that time Sherlock had managed to realize his friend was missing and darted right back around. When he reached the fallen doctor, his heart practically stopped as he saw Birch about to lunge toward his friend.

"Stop!" Sherlock ordered, breathing heavily.

Birch stopped and let a sly, evil grin stretch across his face before leaning down and taking the limp, half-conscious John in his arms and holding the knife to his neck.

"What do you want from us?" Sherlock bellowed, trying to steady out his breathing.

"I'll be damned if I set foot in prison," the killer snarled, "so I dare you to step further and see what happens." He pressed the blade deeper against John's rough skin, not yet letting a drop of blood escape.

"Let him go, and I let you go…"

"That's hilarious, you thought you even had a chance of catching me," Birch snapped as he flung John back down onto the pavement and stormed off around a corner.

Sherlock ignored the escaped criminal and raced to John's side. Kneeling down, he held his friend's face in his hand, trying to lift up his drooping head.

"John, can you hear me? Are you alright?"

John's eyes blinked open, and he felt the cold brick wall under his sandy hair.

"Yeah…yeah m'alright…" he breathed out slowly.

"What happened? Did you faint?"

"Mm…I think so…"

"Do you need to go to the hospital?" Sherlock's eyes scanned over the doctor's scrunched up torso in search of any cuts or bruises.

"No, no, I just need to lie down." He closed his eyes again.

The detective examined John's face, and for the first time noticed the heavy bags and dark circles under his eyes.

"John…when was the last time you slept, or…ate?"

"Uhm…" John's eyes danced back in forth in search of an answer, but came up empty handed.

With a worried scowl, Sherlock lifted his weary friend up and heaved him into a cab and all the way home.

* * *

"Sherlock, please," John whimpered from his position on the sofa. He was spread across it with a blanket draped over him and an untouched cup of tea residing on the coffee table.

"No John, you need to rest, and drink your damn tea 'cause I actually went through the trouble of making it."

"This is important…"

"I don't care how important it is; you are not going back out after just passing out and almost being sliced open by a serial killer!"

"Fine…alright, but can I at least sleep in my own bedroom?"

Sherlock put down his notes and rolled his eyes.

"_Now_ you want to sleep in your own bed."

* * *

John was sitting at the desk, typing every so often on his laptop. Sherlock had gone out to meet with Lestrade about the Birch case, and John was enjoying the still silence that inhabited the flat. He felt comforted with the cool, soft cotton of his black and white striped jumper on his shoulders, and glanced out the window at the blank sky.

He rubbed his eyes again, for most likely the fiftieth time that morning. The last amount of rest he'd gotten came from about an hour of sleep after returning home from his fainting spell. He sniffled, sat up a little straighter and tried to focus.

Then the sound of the door rattling from downstairs made John let out an exasperated sigh. It wasn't long before the detective was barging through the doors, sending any ounce of peaceful silence crumbling into bits.

"Birch is behind bars." Sherlock spit out as he shed his coat and gloves.

"Hm?" John didn't even bother to look up from his computer screen.

"Are you not paying attention? Lestrade's people caught him just a few hours after he'd fled from us, apparently his hide and go seek skills had been deteriorating."

"Oh, hm." The doctor rested a hand under his chin and tried to blink away the weariness in his eyes.

"I'm sorry, am I boring you?" Sherlock looked accusingly at John, who finally turned his head to his flatmate.

"No, Sherlock, sorry. But doesn't this mean you're bored now?"

Sherlock just sighed and plopped himself into John's chair. "Not yet John, my mind is still going over all the details of this chase. It might take a whole day for the boredom to set in. Oh! Can I use your phone?"

"It's in my room, Sherlock. And where's yours?"

"Dropped it on the way to Lestrade's, screen cracked. Bloody _Mycroft's_ fixing it."

"Mm."

Sherlock took that as a sound of approval and shot up to John's room. It was about a minute later that John remembered he'd taken his phone out of his room and left it sitting on the kitchen counter, but figured Sherlock would deduce as such sooner or later.

Two minutes of hearing nothing from Sherlock soon stretched to ten, and John was beginning to wonder what he was doing in his room. Suddenly John could hear heavy pounding on the steps as Sherlock trudged his way down very slowly.

When Sherlock walked into the living room, it was as if the whole world got dark. The blank slate of sky had churned into a sickening charcoal grey in the time that had passed, and John's mouth gaped open as he stared up at Sherlock.

"_What is this, John_?" Sherlock's voice was barely above a choked whisper as he held up a half-used syringe of cocaine.

"Sherlock, it's not—"

"I swear to whatever higher being you pray to if you dare say 'it's not what it looks like' so help me—"

"Listen to me, just, listen, alright? Just stop…" John held out a hand defensively, and slowly got up from his chair, standing just a few feet from the fuming detective.

"It all makes sense now," Sherlock was smiling bitterly, "the late nights, the odd hours, strange behavior, exhaustion. What the hell are you playing at John?"

"Alright," he tried to keep his voice low and calm, "alright, I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean for it to—yes, I'm sorry."

"You're _sorry_? Sorry, John? Because the last time I checked muttering the word 'sorry' does not turn back time and revoke your actions!"

"Oh for Christ's sake, like you're one to talk!"

Sherlock's eyes shot open wider as his jaw dropped another millimeter.

John quickly corrected himself, "No, no, I didn't mean that, no, I—"

"You disgust me." Sherlock snarled as he threw the syringe down onto the floor with utter distaste. He turned himself around, about to head towards the coatrack when John's hand shot out and clasped the taller man's wrist tight.

"No! Where are you going?" John pleaded.

John's grip made it impossible for Sherlock to step any further, and he turned his head slightly so that he was facing John, his steely gaze piercing holes into the doctor's soul.

"How could you, John? After all I've been through, after everything you know I've dealt with, you revert to the same poison?"

John tightened his grip in a desperate attempt to hold onto _something_.

"Sherlock," he started, but the detective interrupted when he let out a cold laugh.

"Look at you," he motioned his free hand to the doctor's face, "eyes so bloodshot you can't even blink without tearing up, paler than a ghost, breathing like a god damn fifty-year-old smoker and shaking like a scared little boy. And you say _I_ don't know how to take care of myself. Look in the mirror, doctor." Sherlock ripped his arm free of John's hold and stormed off to his room.

* * *

A light drizzle was beginning to trickle its way down John's coat collar as he leaned up against the railing outside of the flat. He held his phone tight to his ear, hands trembling.

"Lestrade, I don't know much longer I can do this.—Yes, I've found it.—I said I found _it_, not _him_. I know, I know…—Tonight? Alright, tonight then…" He closed his eyes as he hung up the phone, and breathed in deeply to prepare himself for what might happen when he went back inside.

John entered the darkened flat to silence. Sherlock was perched in his armchair with a hardcover on his lap, his face hung very low.

"Sherlock?" John tried, in the calmest voice he could muster. When Sherlock didn't answer, John pressed forward anyway. "Listen, I'm gonna have a kip, then probably go out later, okay?"

More silence. John cleared his throat and nodded to himself before heading up the stairs.

* * *

When Sherlock decided to peel his eyes away from his research and glance down at his watch, he let out a short gasp of surprise on finding it to be just after two in the morning.

From the kitchen table, he looked into the sitting room, expecting to see the dusty blonde hair of the back of his friend's head in his armchair. Instead, the room was empty, and Sherlock frowned as he got up from his seat.

"John?" His voice sounded hollow, like he could sense that no one was listening.

Having just finished establishing that the army doctor was nowhere in the flat, Sherlock was heading back into the kitchen when he heard a thud from the door downstairs.

It sounded as if John had come in the door, but perhaps tripped or stumbled slightly. Sherlock perked his ears up and listened closer. He could hear slow, loud footsteps seemingly struggle their way up. When the sound of John's form got closer, Sherlock could hear very heavy and uneven breathing.

He sat down on the edge of the sofa closest to the door in anticipation, but nothing could prepare him for watching John clumsily open the door, and immediately collapse onto the floor, carrying with him an overpowering scent of copper.

Sherlock jumped straight up, slammed the door shut, and wrapped his arms around John's torso. The detective's hands felt a sticky, warm substance through the fabric of John's shirt as he leaned him up against the wall. It was like a waterfall of crimson on John's jumper, the blood trickling down from his chin.

"Oh my god, John! What the hell happened?" Now the detective was holding onto John's shoulders, trying to steady him, and when the doctor tried to voice a reply, all that came up was a fit of coughs, causing rivulets of blood to spurt out from his mouth.

Sherlock eyed John's face, riddled with scrapes and bruises, blood dripping down his chin and onto his clothes. His eyes were dilated far more than they should have been, and Sherlock put a hand to John's throat and found his pulse beating at a rapid fire pace.

"John! You're high as a kite!" Sherlock couldn't control it, but the corners of his eyes were beginning to fill with tears.

John coughed up a bit more, gasping for air as he tried to form words, "Sh'lock…had to…tell…" he panted.

"Had to tell? Tell what? John, I'm calling an ambulance." Sherlock got out his phone and was already dialing when John's arm waved unnaturally in protest.

"No…have to tell…to tell…"

Sherlock pressed the phone to his ear. "Hello?—Yes, my friend, he's hurt badly he needs an ambulance,-yes, 221B Baker Street."

He hung up and immediately wrapped an arm back around John's shoulder, the other cradling the back of the doctor's head in his hand.

"Had to tell you…" John coughed.

"Had to tell me what? John, you can tell me later because you're not going anywhere do you understand? Why the hell didn't call for help?"

"Took my…took my phone…"

"Who? Who took you phone? How did no one notice on the street?" Sherlock regretted asking that after remembering the late hour.

"Needed to say…" John curled his arm around his waist and Sherlock noticed the splotch of red that was blossoming under his jacket.

"Say _what_, John?"

"I'm…s-sorry…" he breathed.

Sherlock blinked, finally releasing a pent up tear that was idling underneath his eyelid. He gripped John's head tighter, feeling the short wisps of blonde through his fingers.

"No, you don't have to be sorry, please don't be sorry."

"It was all for…" he grimaced, wincing as he gripped his abdomen tighter.

"Stop talking John please, help is on its way I promise you."

"It was, it was all, all for…" breathing was becoming increasingly difficult.

"All for what, John? All for what?"

"For you..." he whispered, before finally closing his eyes and letting his head fall back into Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock could still feel John's heartbeat underneath his palm, and was washed over in a wave of relief as he heard the sirens approaching.

* * *

John sat on the sofa, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together, finally looking calm and rested as he stared at the consulting detective who sat opposite him in a desk chair.

It was two days after John had been released from the hospital, and after spending the entire first day home in bed, he decided now would be a good time to explain.

"So that's what this whole thing was about then," Sherlock stated flatly, absentmindedly biting on a fingernail with his hand curled up on the side of his face. "Lestrade put you on a case by yourself, and you refused to let me in on any of it?"

"Sherlock, I'm—"

"Don't say it. I don't need an apology, I need an explanation. What the hell were doing in all those odd hours of the night? Where you even _at_ work when you told me you had to go? Did you ever _really_ meet Sarah anywhere?"

"Uhm, no, I didn't. I took two weeks off of work this."

"My god," now Sherlock was smiling, "you're incredible."

John sat back a little in surprise. "I'm what? What're you talking about?"

"I can't believe this…" Sherlock was shaking his head in disbelief, but still smiling, "you, John Watson, king of the ordinary man, managed to deceive Sherlock Holmes."

The doctor couldn't help but smile vaguely. "Erm, yeah I guess I did. But, it was easy, really."

"How? How did you manage to slip past me so many times?"

"It was simple, in the beginning, anyway, because all I had to do was be myself, knowing that you'd trust me."

"Brilliant. Now, hopefully your cunning mind can explain to me why you ended up back at the flat at two in the morning, high as anything, and covered in blood."

John's gaze dropped to the floor and he began to twiddle nervously with his fingers. "There was a reason, you know, that you weren't meant to know about this case."

"Which was?"

"Uhm, I was tracking down a drug lord, Sherlock. Not just that, a whole web of dealers, a huge criminal organization, to be frank. As you probably already guessed by now they were heavy in the cocaine business. The leader was starting to murder clients that didn't pay up on time, and Lestrade needed someone who could sneak in, get the job done quiet."

"And he decided to exclude me for fear that I would, what, relapse? You've got to be joking!"

"Sherlock listen to me, you would've been surrounded by a whole world of drugs, interacting with dealers, you would've been far too exposed and it just wasn't worth the risk."

"So instead you risk your life?"

"I, I suppose you could put it that way. It was just too dangerous, knowing everything you've been through. I didn't like lying to you, but I just couldn't imagine seeing you spiral downwards again."

"John, for the last time, you are not my body guard! I don't need protecting! I could've very well handled myself and this entire mess would've been completely avoided! Do you have any idea what it felt like to find that needle in your dresser drawer, which now I'm assuming was—"

"Evidence,"

"Yes, do you have any idea at all? I wanted to scream, John. There was no way I was going to watch you go down the same path as me, and that night when you fell into the flat…" his voice broke off, eyes darting anywhere but John.

"I'm sorry…I didn't mean to scare you. I'd found where the guy was hiding, and was about to call Lestrade, when I got jumped. There had to be at least four of them…one of them stabbed a needle in my arm, but apparently they didn't want a murder on their hands so they just left me. To be honest, I don't even remember walking back to the flat. I don't remember much at all actually…"

"It's alright, it's, fine. You were just so…determined."

"Determined?"

"To tell me that you were sorry."

"Jesus..." he sighed, putting his head in hands, "I promise you Sherlock I am never going off on a case without you again, these past few weeks have been nothing short of hell."

"You don't have to worry John, because I will never _let_ you go on without me."

* * *

A/N: I know for me personally the ending felt a little rushed, but what did you think? Reviews are super helpful and again thanks a bunch for stopping by *gives you an imaginary muffin*


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